


Siren

by Selkie_de_Suzie



Series: All That Jazz [4]
Category: Strange Magic (2015)
Genre: 1930's AU, Chanteuse, Fever Dream, Mob Boss Bog Is Rife With Sexual Frustration, Mobster AU, Nightclub AU, Romance, Sexually Frustrated Dreams, Torch Singer, Unresolved Sexual Tension, butterfly bog, dream fic, gangster au, mob boss, sensual dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-28
Updated: 2015-04-28
Packaged: 2018-03-26 03:59:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3836215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Selkie_de_Suzie/pseuds/Selkie_de_Suzie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She's begun to haunt him even as he sleeps, and her song is the only one he wants to hear...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Siren

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place in my 1930's Nightclub AU, when Mob Boss Bog and Chanteuse Marianne haven't yet gotten together, and instead merely struggle with the stupid amount of sexual tension between them…which results in stuff like this.

The other people in the club are shapeless, formless things, a mass of writhing darkness that murmurs amongst itself and soaks in smoke and booze and music and shadow. Bog could care less about them. They’re only background noise, there’s only one thing that matters, one song he wants to hear…

He can only watch her…

She doesn’t have a spotlight on her, but she shines all the same, glittering in the smoky light, dust motes trailing after her, sparkling like some woven spell. She’s wearing one of those beaded numbers that clings to her curves and moves with her body in a way that has Bog clenching his fists, his jaw tense.

She’s singing something, slow and sultry, the seductive melody of her voice an almost tangible thing, dragging against him like velvet…

She slinks into the crowd, parting it effortlessly, and he can’t hear the words to her song but it pulls him all the same, or maybe he’s just trapped by the heat in her eyes, drawn like a moth to a flame. Those dark, beguiling eyes – dangerous eyes, witchcraft eyes. He suddenly remembers hearing his father talk about the Faeries of his homeland, the Selkies and the Sirens, and God, she might very well be one, with the irresistible pull of her song and how her eyes have completely and utterly ensnared him, bewitched him. She  _is_  magic, strange and wild and beautiful and dangerous –

She’s at his table, then his chair, and before he even knows it she’s sliding into his lap and  _oh bloody fucking hell_ , his heart nearly freezes at the feel of her against him, the smooth and curvy lines of her legs pressed against his,  _ **what**  is happening,_  _ **what**  is she  **playing**  at_,  _oh God, please don’t let him embarrass himself_  –

She’s sliding teasing hands up his chest, along his neck collar, leaving fiery trails of sensation that sink through his shirt, through his skin, right into his blood, his bones, the heat nearly charring him. She _has_  to feel how his heart is racing, what she’s doing to him, he has no idea what to do, but she just keeps singing her song, her smile mischievous and her eyes molten, and  _oh holy hell_ , he is so flustered but she’s lighting a fire in him, and he’s burning for more –

Her lips brush against his ear as delicately as butterfly wings, and he still can’t hear her song, but then –  _oh bloody hell, oh God_  – she slides her fingers through his hair –  _oh Jesus_  – down to the nape of his neck, and he  _shivers_ , hard, and the  _look_ she gives him at that is what a purr would be if visible. But then,  _oh_ , then she –

_-slips her hand under his shirt collar and strokes down his spine –_

**_Oh holy fucking hell._ **

He’s lost, he’s melting, slumping against her and groaning deep in his throat, he’s completely and utterly devastated by her and he doesn’t want her to stop, doesn’t give a  _damn_  if any of the other patrons can see –

He pulls her  _hard_  against him, and she’s  _got_  to feel what she’s doing to him, straddling him so, every inch of her pressed against every inch –  _every goddamn, achingly sensitive inch_  - of him, and she’s no longer singing, no longer teasing. 

She stares into his eyes, her breath catching and her eyes fathomless with heat and hunger, the same hunger that’s tearing like a brushfire through him, and then she inclines her face to his, her eyes sliding closed and her lips already parting, and he rises up to meet her, desperately burning to taste those wine-stained lips –

* * *

And then Bog woke up, starting violently and grappling with the sweaty sheets twisted around him.  _She had – her mouth brushing his –_

Bog flailed and knocked an empty bottle of bourbon on his nightstand to the floor with a clatter. The sound brought him back to reality, and he frantically tried to catch his breath, calm his racing heart, tried to focus on something else other than the hot, thudding ache in his lower body…

 _A dream._  He sighed hard, rubbing a hand over his face. It was just a goddamn dream, could have only been that. Holy hell, though, it had felt so  _real_ , so  _vivid,_  he was still hot to the touch, still –

Bog glanced down, and groaned.  _Goddammit._

He inhaled, and let himself fall back against the headboard of his bed, pulling his legs up and running a hand through his hair, pushing the disheveled locks away. Why… _why_ had he dreamed about her? All those years alone, all those empty nights he tried to fill with business and cigarettes and booze, he had never gotten hot and bothered over some dame before. She was just that, just some dame…

_A dame who made that stony thing you call a heart race when she sang to you that night, who looked at you with those eyes and made you feel your goddamn **soul**  shiver._

Bog exhaled shakily.   _Oh no._

Oh God, he  _wasn’t_ doing this. He  _wasn’t_  getting soft, not after all these years, not after the last time, his heart couldn’t take it, he…he  _couldn’t_ , he  _shouldn’t_ , there wasn’t even a damn  _chance_  she would look at someone like him - !

There was a sudden banging on the door, someone frantically pounding, and Bog nearly let out a yelp.

Thang’s voice rang out. “Boss? Are you okay? We heard a noise! Do, uh …”

“Ask him, he’ll appreciate it!”

“Okay – Do you need any help, Boss?”

 _“No!”_  Bog snarled out, and seized the bottle on the floor. He threw it viciously into the wastepaper basket by his desk, making it rattle back and forth. “Nothing’s wrong, a bottle just got knocked over –  _now leave me be and let me get some goddamn sleep!”_

He heard Stuff and Thang frantically scurry down the hall away from his room, their fear well justified after years of witnessing just how black their Boss’s mood could get if he didn’t get enough rest.

It was only after he heard them depart that Bog dropped the glower and groaned, his head sinking into his hands. “ _Yes_ ”, he muttered, his voice muffled and strained, thinking back to one Miss Marianne Fairfield, sultry new singer at The Dark Forest, who had decided to haunt his dreams, her Siren song preying upon him even as he slept…

Oh yes, Bog  _definitely_  needed help, and as the memory of the dark luster of those smoldering eyes burned through him like a hot brand, his heart gave a miserable little twist.

Like it or not, he was in trouble.


End file.
